


Whispers In The Dark Of Night

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock used to visit Greg in the dark of night. He has stopped, since the fall. But tonight he's back and they both accept it won't be real when they wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers In The Dark Of Night

_Did you miss me did you miss me did you miss me_

Greg wasn’t ashamed to admit he ran. He ran out into the street where others emerged from their homes.

“Is your telly doing it too?” they were asking each other. Greg stopped. Stared. Hailed a taxi. He flicked through his phone as he sat on the back seat but no one had messaged him, surprise, surprise.

He dropped his head into his hands until the cab arrived outside his building. He hastily paid the driver and typed in the code. 1473.

He got into the lift, leaning against the wall as it took him up the four floors to his flat. With a shaking hand, he opened the door and slammed it shut. He kicked his shoes off, dropped his coat on the floor and leaned over the sofa to grab the television remote. He turned it on.

_Did you miss me did you miss me did you miss me_

It wasn’t stopping, not on any of the channels. That face. A mask of evil and everything he wished he could erase from his memory. It was on a loop. It made him feel sick. He dropped down onto the sofa, muting the TV.

He ended up reading. There wasn’t much else to do and it settled down the panic in his chest. Until finally, at just gone 11pm, he gave up and went to bed.

Alone in the dark, he lay on his back, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He was woken by the sound of a door closing. Probably. He jolted up, not sure exactly what he had heard. And whether it was his door, or his neighbours’ doors.

Footsteps. That was definitely in his flat. He sat up, fumbling around for his phone. The handle on his bedroom door began to open.

“Lie down, Lestrade,” the voice said.

Greg frowned. Sounded remarkably like…

“Yes, it’s me.”

Sherlock.

“What the hell are you doing?” Greg snarled, leaning over to turn the light on.

“Don’t turn it on, you’ll ruin everything,” Sherlock said simply. “Lie back down.”

“Sherlock…” Greg warned.

“Lie back down.”

Greg paused for a moment before huffing and doing as he was told - no, ordered - to do. He rolled his eyes and listened through the darkness to Sherlock’s footsteps as he walked to the unoccupied side of the bed. And then there was the sound of clothes dropping on the floor.

“Sherlock,” Greg muttered. “What are you doing?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Sherlock said as he pulled the covers back and slid under them. Greg opened his mouth to protest, but just sighed instead. He turned his head to try and peer at Sherlock through the darkness, but he was only a silhouette.

“It’s a new moon tonight,” Sherlock said. “It’s the darkest the sky ever is.”

“I see,” Greg muttered.

Sherlock was lying on his side, facing towards Greg. Greg remained on his back, turning to look back up at the ceiling.

“Do you remember what you used to say?” Sherlock asked after a few silent minutes.

“I’ve said a lot of stuff to you over the years, Sherlock. What did I used to say?”

“That nothing’s real when it’s dark. Is that still true?”

Greg frowned. He used to tell Sherlock that when he was going through withdrawal. In the darkness of Greg’s living room or bedroom, when the black-out curtains were drawn and the lights out, it was the only time he would let Greg touch him.

And Greg had known Sherlock needed that touch. Craved it, even. Not that he would ever admit it. It seemed to slow down his heart, make him relax. But it had to be dark.

And Greg used to tell him it wasn’t real when it was dark, so that Sherlock wouldn’t be ashamed of letting someone get so close.

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Yeah, I guess it’s still true.”

“Where did it come from?” Sherlock asked. “I never thought to find out before.”

“My mum used to tell me it when I was scared of what was hiding under the bed,” Greg explained. “She said nothing in the dark is real. So if I turned the torch on then it would all go away.”

Sherlock snorted.

“I was a kid, Sherlock. If you think it’s pathetic then just go, because I really can’t be bothered to deal with your crap right now.”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic. I just don’t think it makes any sense.”

“Sherlock-” Greg warned.

“-But I like it,” Sherlock cut him off. “It means I can do this, and in the morning, it’s not real.”

Greg sighed. “I’m glad that works for you,” he murmured.

“Doesn’t it work for you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t often have conversations in the dark.”

“Why not?”

Greg rolled his eyes to himself. “Who would I have a conversation with?”

“Oh. I thought perhaps in those two years…”

“Nope.”

“Not one?”

“Not one, Sherlock.”

“But you thought I was dead.”

“I did,” Greg muttered. “I thought you were dead. Thanks for that.”

“I gave you that one night so you’d forget about me,” Sherlock said.

Greg felt a painful twinge in his chest and he said nothing. He remembered that night, just a few days before Sherlock’s fall, although Greg had no idea that was coming.

He’d gone to bed, turned off the lights. And only half an hour later, Sherlock approached him in the dark, as he so often had since they had returned from Baskerville. But that night was different. Because they kissed. Sherlock initiated it. Greg caressed every inch of his body, every sound he made enhanced somehow by the lack of visual stimulus.

When Greg woke up, the light just appearing behind the curtains, Sherlock was gone. Two days later, he jumped.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, cutting him out of his thoughts.

“You knew,” Greg muttered. God that hurt so much, that Sherlock knew how Greg had felt and had done that anyway. “You knew what I felt about you. And you gave me one. You gave. You gave me one fucking night. The best night, knowing you may be walking away forever. And I… I thought you felt something for me too. But now I realise it was both the single most selfless thing and the most horrible thing you’ve ever done with me.”

“I did know. Everyone knew. You were so obvious.”

“Why the hell did you do that, Sherlock?”

“Because I wanted to.”

Greg stopped breathing for a second, digesting those words. Because Sherlock wanted to still didn’t mean any feelings were reciprocated. Just that he wanted something physical before he pretended to die.

“So, you’re not going to Europe then?” Greg asked, changing the subject.

“Nope.”

“I sort of thought you weren’t coming back.”

“I wasn’t,” Sherlock said. “It wasn’t the plan. But now I am. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. I’m not unhappy about it. Just… I’m glad. Very glad.”

“You never stopped,” Sherlock said.

And it was like Sherlock had begun that sentence half way through, and Greg didn’t know what he was referring to. Because he felt he had stopped. He had pressed pause on his own life when Sherlock died because his grief was all-consuming. He had put a halt to many of his friendships because Sally and John blamed him in different ways. He had forced himself to forget Sherlock, no matter that he was still in love with him.

There was no grief. Not anymore, but the despair and the loss was still there, for the things he thought he and Sherlock could have had. For that one night, before the fall, when he thought Sherlock could be his one day, if he tried really hard and proved to Sherlock how good they would be together. If he could convince Sherlock someone adored him enough to love all of his flaws and his insecurities.

“I stopped,” Greg said.

“No. You never stopped. You should have stopped. I gave you that one night so you could stop. But you didn’t.”

Greg breathed in deeply. “How could I?” he asked, his voice shaky. “You gave me a hope, Sherlock.”

“I wanted you to stop caring,” Sherlock said.

“It doesn’t work like that.” Greg paused for a moment. “It was dark anyway, wasn’t it?” he muttered bitterly. “So it wasn’t real to you, was it?”

They fell silent.

“I don’t like it,” Sherlock said.

“I can’t… I can’t help it for God’s sake,” Greg told him, frustrated. “I tried switching it off and I can’t.”

“I don’t mean you,” Sherlock said, and Greg could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I mean me.”

“You?” Greg echoed, frowning. He turned his head to peer at Sherlock’s silhouette. “What do you mean you?”

“I felt it,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet. “I’d never felt it before, until that moment when I thought you might die.”

“Felt what?”

“A hole.”

Greg closed his eyes, not evening knowing what to say. He didn’t even know what it meant.

“What happened at Baskerville?” Sherlock asked.

Greg blinked at the change in subject. “What about it?”

“What did you see in the mist?”

“My daughter,” Greg murmured. “Being.” He swallowed, not even sure he could say it, even now, even though she was safe and sound.

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured. “That explains why you were so…”

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “Yes, that explains why I was so-”

“-Sad-”

“-Terrified. Sad? I wasn’t sad.”

“There were tears on your cheeks,” Sherlock said. “I catalogued it, because it made my chest hurt to look at you. Yes your hands were shaking because you were scared, but you felt grief. I saw grief on your face.”

“I dunno,” Greg murmured. “It was a long while ago.”

“You’re still grieving for me. Why are you still grieving? I’m not dead.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I see that look on you still, even if the tears aren’t there. What are you grieving about? Your daughter’s still alive. You saw her just last month.”

I saw her last week too, Greg thought. Though Sherlock wouldn’t know, because Sherlock had no interest in him any more. Was he grieving for something he’d never had with this man lying in his bed? Perhaps, but he shouldn’t be thinking that way.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” Greg finally asked.

“We used to do this. After Baskerville.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Yeah, we did do this. And then you died.”

“But I’m not dead. Why does everything have to be different because I was gone for two years?”

Greg sighed softly and stretched his arm out. “C’mere.”

“What?”

“It’s dark, it’s not real,” Greg reminded him. It was always a lie in the dark. “Come here.”

He waited a few moments before Sherlock shifted over, resting his head over Greg’s heart. Greg wrapped an arm around him, resisting the urge to kiss his hair.

Yes, they used to do this. A couple of times a week after Baskerville. They’d lie in the dark and discuss and debate all manner of things. At first, they had stayed separate. As the weeks went by, Sherlock drew closer and closer, until he lay just like he was now.

And Sherlock wondered why Greg was in love with him?

“Things change all the time, Sherlock. You see it everywhere. All your experiments. They’re about change, right? Mould and chemical reactions. They’re about change under different circumstances. Everything changes.”

“I conceded that,” Sherlock agreed. “But I can predict those with relative certainty. People are… they’re annoying.”

“Why, because we’re unpredictable?”

“Yes. You were sentimental about me after Baskerville and you invited me to share your bed with you.”

“You invited yourself,” Greg muttered.

“But after I died, you never invited me,” Sherlock continued as though he hadn’t heard the comment. “But I’m sure you’re still sentimental about me. As I said. You never stopped.”

“Never stopped what exactly?”

Sherlock fell silent.

“You can’t even say the word can you?” Greg murmured, holding Sherlock tighter. “Can’t even-”

“-Love,” Sherlock cut him off. “You loved me.”

“I still love you,” Greg whispered. He closed his eyes, sighing when he felt Sherlock tense against him. “You died, Sherlock. And you destroyed my life and everything in it and I still love you. And even after you came back, you cut me out. You weren’t interested in me or my cases. You treat me appallingly, and I will still come to your beckon call because I will wait for you until I die. And I know that fucking terrifies you, well guess what, it terrifies me too.”

“Why are you saying this?” Sherlock whispered.

“Because it’s dark, Sherlock, and according to your logic that means this conversation isn’t real. So when you leave here before dawn, it’ll be like it never happened. Just like every other night you used to come here and lie beside me. Do you know how many times I woke up at 1am to find you wrapped around me? Only to wake up when it got light and find you gone? Then you came here and you kissed me and told me you wanted me, and maybe I’m a terrible person, but I took everything you offered. And you left before dawn. Like it wasn’t real.”

“It wasn’t real,” Sherlock said. “It couldn’t be real, because I knew Moriarty was going to destroy me.”

“He destroyed me too.”

“I think he won,” Sherlock said after a few minutes. “I think we lost.”

“I think we did too,” Greg replied.

“I find it… acceptable,” Sherlock said.

Greg frowned. “What is?”

“That you love me.”

Greg swallowed. “Good. Because I tried to stop, and it didn’t stick.”

“I think I would like to do this more often,” Sherlock declared. “Lie here with you in the dark. We discussed politics.”

Greg smiled a little. “Yes. Yeah, except I knew more about it than you did because you don’t even know who the Prime Minister is.”

“You taught me about the solar system. The earth goes around the sun and the moon goes around the earth and pluto got demoted.”

Greg snorted with laughter. “Yeah, pluto got demoted.”

“What did I teach you?” Sherlock asked.

“Teach me?”

“You taught me how to stay clean. How to avoid drugs. You taught me about the solar system and what local councils are, and why it’s important to vote. John taught me how to make friends and how to make sacrifices. Molly taught me how to make lemon meringue pie, but I deleted it because that wasn’t particularly useful when you’re trying to take down a criminal web. What did I ever teach you?”

Greg stayed quiet, his thumb rubbing slowly against Sherlock’s shoulder. He wanted to say ‘more than you know’ but he knew Sherlock would want specifics. And in truth, he didn’t have any.

Sherlock hadn’t really taught him anything, not anything he could nail down.

“You make me feel happy,” Greg finally said. “Sometimes - most times - you drive me mad, but when you storm away, I can’t help but smile.”

“That’s… not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“I know. I don’t tell you what you want to hear, that’s why you tolerate me.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said.

“Is it?” Greg asked.

“I don’t tolerate you.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Ah. Cheers then.”

“No, I… I more than tolerate. I… accept.”

Greg snorted. “You accept me?”

“What would you prefer?”

“I’d prefer you’d like me.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Sherlock said. “If I liked you then I approve of you. I equate you with other things I like, such as dogs and nice clothes. But if I accept you, which I do… to accept you is to believe I recognise you as valid and correct.”

Greg frowned. “I still think liking me seems better.”

“No. No, because the things I like are irrelevant. I can live without the things I like. But I accept the periodic table, and I accept gravity and evolution. I accept you. You are a fact. A constant. Changing, perhaps, and I wish you would stop getting old and doing things I can’t predict. But you are as certain as… the earth going around the sun. That is a certainty, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Greg whispered.

“I accept you. Your existence, your… ways are to me as the fact that living things are made up of cells. You are the proof that some people aren’t unkind. Not to anyone.”

Greg pressed his eyes closed, so glad they were in the darkness, so Sherlock couldn’t see how much his words had affected him.

“But you love me,” Sherlock said. “And I’m not sure what I can compare that to.”

“It just is,” Greg whispered. “It isn’t comparable.”

“No. No, you’re right, it’s not.”

Sherlock nodded against Greg’s chest, and he gave Greg’s arm a gentle squeeze before rolling back over to his side of the bed. “None of this is real?” Sherlock asked.

“No, Sherlock. None of this is real.”

Greg closed his eyes and listened to the rustling of the sheets as Sherlock got comfortable. His chest felt tight, his cheeks still damp as he reminded himself that in the morning, none of this would have taken place. Never to be spoken of again.

“Goodnight, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded. That was their conversation done then. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes. A small line of light was filtering in through the window. Greg sighed and rolled over and blinked when he saw the black curls and Sherlock’s sleeping face beside him. He stared. He couldn’t help himself.

He closed his eyes, trying to breathe quietly. He lay there and waited for Sherlock to wake up, realise the sun had come up. And then he would leave.

He felt Sherlock stir beside him.

“The sun’s up,” Sherlock whispered.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “But I’ve not got my eyes open, so I’ll pretend it’s still dark if you want.”

“Is that what you want?” Sherlock asked.

Greg stayed quiet. Of course it wasn’t, but he’d do the best thing for Sherlock, always.

Greg felt the bed dip, heard Sherlock pad over towards the window. Behind his eyelids, he saw more light pour in as the curtains were opened. The bed dipped again as Sherlock slid back under the covers.

“Open your eyes,” Sherlock whispered.

Greg did, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes. He felt his breath catch. He didn’t know what to say, he just lay there and waited.

“The sun’s out,” Sherlock said again.

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “I see that.”

“So it’s real now,” Sherlock murmured with an earnest expression. “It’s all real now.”

Greg nodded.

Sherlock reached out and cupped Greg’s cheek. “It’s real,” he said again. And then he leaned forward and brought their mouths together in the warmest kiss Greg had ever known. 


End file.
